


Execution

by beehoony



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Execution, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Judgment, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 07:15:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2804102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beehoony/pseuds/beehoony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I wanted to make Erimond Tranquil. I would but for this damned rumour of a cure." She laughed bitterly. "Monster that I am, I want him to suffer a fate worse than death. But I can't. So he must die." She pulled herself up to look him in the eye. "You have to teach me how to use that sword to kill him."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Execution

"The magister will arrive at Skyhold today, Inquisitor." 

She was being scrutinised, much to her displeasure. Her report of the events at Adamant had reached Leliana borne on raven wings several days before their arrival. Cullen had stayed behind to organise the surviving soldiers, before taking several templars to escort the magister back to Skyhold. The magister was being kept unconscious with a combination of sleeping draughts, but was also restrained with heavily warded manacles. She had inspected the wards before she and her companions had set out, irrationally terrified about leaving Cullen with the monster who had destroyed the Wardens. She knew that he was well equipped for the task, nonetheless she had pulled him into his tent to kiss him angrily and order him to come home safe. As usual, a runner had walked in on them and that was that. 

Leliana looked strangely predatory in the early morning light, shadowing the hollows of her gaunt cheeks and hooded eyes. She was still testing the Inquisitor, judging Evelyn against her love for the Divine and her shattered faith. 

"The magister will face judgment in the coming week. The troops will not be far behind, we should first see that they receive a welcome befitting the victory at Adamant. We also need to see to the remaining Wardens. I want to speak to Stroud when he arrives, and they need quarters away from the mages and the rest of the army for now. I want them to mingle more when tempers settle, but not while the wounds are still fresh."

"I will see to it, Inquisitor." 

She smiled gratefully at Josephine. Many of those duties would have fallen to Cullen, but she was grateful that he wouldn't arrive only to be deluged by work. She would have to thank Cassandra too; doubtless she would be quietly--well, firmly--lending a helping hand.

*****

He was easy to spot in the crowd, standing out in red (harder for the men to tell when you're hurt and bleeding, Inquisitor. She had hoped that he had been joking). His soldiers and runners scurried as he barked commands. 

She lingered on the battlements watching him, drawing uninteresting threads of the Fade around her like a cloak. He saw through it as usual, looking straight at her and stopping dead in his tracks, sternness melting from his brow. His face brightened into an almost smile until a Warden began talking to him, gesticulating urgently. He waved him off and called his templars over. The templars dragged a limp figure out of the barred carriage, carrying it towards the dungeon.

*****

The festivities were well under way when he finally made his way back into his office, closing the door on the drunken singing outside. He gripped his pommel instinctively, sensing he wasn't alone. A small bright spark drifted from her fingers, flaming briefly to light the candle before fizzling out. She was curled up in his chair, the absurd Inquisition sword lying on his cluttered desk. The gaudy dragon curled around its hilt threw strange reflections on her face.

He unbuckled his sword and laid it next to hers before taking her into his arms. "I thought I'd lost you again. Maker, when that dragon showed up and that wing of Adamant collapsed..." 

They clung to each other fiercely. There had been no time at Adamant to be lovers; only time enough for the Inquisitor to brief her commander of the events before leaving, Wardens not far behind.

There was time now. She had been there when the bulk of the soldiers marched in and had been the first to crack open the kegs, conspiratorially whispering to him about creating a distraction. It seemed to be working well.

He kissed her with increasing hunger but she gently pushed him away. "I'm sorry. I need you to help me with something."

For a heated moment, he had a mind to suggest that he knew what help she needed best, but immediately regretted the thought. She was watching him gravely."You know that you need only ask." 

"I wanted to make Erimond Tranquil. I would but for this damned rumour of a cure." She laughed bitterly. "Monster that I am, I want him to suffer a fate worse than death. But I can't. So he must die." She pulled herself up to look him in the eye. "You have to teach me how to use that sword to kill him."

He understood. She did not trust that she would make the killing blow a clean one. "I could do it--or one of our soldiers."

"No." She exhaled, an angry little sound that was equal parts scorn and self-loathing. "The judgment must come from the Inquisitor, and so must the punishment."

That explained the sword, which had been hanging on the wall in her quarters until now. He recalled being a little surprised that it wasn't rusting, but no doubt someone had been tasked with polishing it. He drew it out of its scabbard, which was surprisingly sensible plain leather. Heavy, and strangely balanced with the dragon hilt. He ran his thumb along the edge cautiously; it could use some work with a whetstone. 

"Hanging him or using magic is not an option?"

"No. I don't want this to be about magic. It's simply that being an arsehole who wants to turn the world into a wasteland will not be tolerated. Hanging might work, but it's not ideal." She bit her lip thoughtfully. "The fact that we are having this conversation is also very strange."

"We live in interesting times." He sheathed the sword before reaching over to kiss her again. Safety first. He would never have admitted to the little twinge of regret that they were not spending the night differently, but here they were, about to practice decapitating a man in his office.

He turned the wooden dummy on its side after digging out his throwing knives. She drew the sword at his word, and he came to stand behind her, gently correcting her grip. Hands over hers, he moved her through the downward stroke. She was stronger than she was before he had began teaching her fighting with staff and spear (he loved her but she was hopeless at it), but her arms still trembled with the exertion by the fourth stroke. 

It needed to be swift, decisive. He groaned inwardly at the thought of watching her hack the magister's head off in stages, although the bastard deserved it. If she was planning to put it off until she could do it personally, the magister would be waiting for a while.

*****

"See, this is why I keep you around." She was lying on his chest and her hair tickled his bare skin whenever she moved. "A strong pair of arms to carry heavy things and chop off heads."

She felt the chuckle rather than heard it. "I am, after all, yours to command." 

"So I command the commander? Isn't that interesting?"

He pulled himself out from under her, pushing her onto her back. "Very interesting," he agreed. "But a good officer also knows how to take the initiative." 

*****

There was a lot of blood. She hated the sound of metal shearing through flesh and bone. She hated making him do her dirty work for her, although he had done it in one clean stroke, face impassive. He left his sword bare; she knew he would clean it fastidiously, broodingly. He was a warrior, but he had never struck down a helpless foe. 

It was a complete farce. Slaughtering the monster in public, to lay the people's fears to rest. Or to quench their thirst for blood? She felt sick watching the blood pool on the flagstones. Would they be able to get rid of the stain?

She tried to breathe as the crowd roared. Erimond needed to die, but it could have been different. She should have killed him, quick and quiet, and then they could have displayed his body. But she knew that they (especially the Wardens) needed to watch him die, and to feel that he had received his just deserts. 

Cullen, her right hand, who had never killed a man in cold blood. She offered prayers to a Maker whose existence she doubted: please don't let them see him as an executioner. Please don't let this hurt him.

She left the battlements without addressing the crowd further. There was nothing to be said. 

*****

She found him in the armoury, an assortment of oils in front of him as he cleaned his sword. He had declined using the ornamental one that they had given her. 

He was alone and she was glad his soldiers had the good sense to give him space. She put her arms around him, burying her face in the back of his neck, smelling his clean, masculine scent. He was still for a moment before sheathing his sword and turning to her. 

"I'm sorry," she mumbled into his chest. "I shouldn't have made you do it."

"It was my suggestion. I was not forced into it."

"He died by my word, and should have also died by my hand!" She said hotly, almost in tears.

"It is done, and it is what had to be done." He brushed her face with the back of his hand--his hands were greasy.

Looking at him, she understood what Cole had said about the templars feeling older than they were. He was solemn, timeless in his sadness. She pressed her forehead to his. 

She knew she was being selfish, but she should have let someone, anyone else take the blow. Blackwall could have struck it for the Wardens (false as he was). The Bull might have laughed as he parted the magister's head from his body. But she knew in her heart of hearts that it was precisely because Cullen did not take it lightly that she had let him do it, and that she loved him for it. 

"I'm fine." He wasn't, not truly, but he was better than he would have been if the tables had been turned. Better him than her. "Do not regret his death. So many died because of his actions, and he suffered far less than they did."

She sighed as she pulled away. "I need to go. Vivienne's dressmaker is waiting." She trailed a finger along his cheek. "At least you'll be coming with us to Halamshiral. I'm told that the dressmaker was in raptures when you put on the dress uniform." 

He smiled a little at that. "I wish you had been there to defend my honour."

"I'll tell him to keep his hands off." She paused at the door. "Thank you. For...everything."

Then she was gone and he was left to his thoughts.

******

He had asked Blackwall and the Bull to spar with him that night, one after another. Having collected some new bruises and a concussion, he spent a long time in the baths, head spinning every time he tried to stand up.

He was caught off guard by her in his bed, a book in one hand and staff in the other. She clutched the book to her chest defensively. 

"You're late," she said accusingly. He was too tired to argue, too confused to wonder what she was doing.

She made him lie down, clever fingers finding the goose egg on his head where Blackwall had clipped him with his mace. She pressed her hand firmly against it and the swelling subsided, his headache and nausea receding like the outgoing tide. 

He was starting to drift off to sleep when she took her hand away. She thumbed the book open to the page she had been reading. It was crumpled from being crushed against her chest; Dorian would not be pleased. 

He had assured her that it would work. Dreamless sleep! She couldn't imagine such a thing or being away from the Fade, not even after being trapped by the Nightmare in Adamant. But Cullen had been trapped in nightmares for years. 

Her fingers tapped impatiently as she tried to memorise how to trace the glyph. The motive of sleep bound within stone. Ah.

Standing on the bed, she picked her staff up and the crystal flared to life. Her index finger left a small silver trail as she traced the glyph in the air above him. It blazed gold when complete, then vanished. 

His breathing was still relaxed. She slid her staff to the floor and put the book under his bed. Pulling the covers over them both, she flicked her fingers at the candle and it obediently went out. There was more than one way to soothe a nightmare, and she would be there when he woke.


End file.
